“Damned hard! But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that I’ve got to pick up a living and I want to know how to do it. An old scrapper don’t find many openings. Chucker-out at a pub with free drinks. Nothing doing there. What I want to know, Tom, is what’s the matter with my becoming a medium?”
“A medium?”
“Why the devil should you stare at me! If it’s good enough for you it’s good enough for me.”
“But you are not a medium.”
“Oh, come! Keep that for the newspapers. It’s all in the family, and between you an’ me, how dy’e do it?”
“I don’t do it. I do nothing.”
“And get four or five quid a week for it. That’s a good yarn. Now you can’t fool me, Tom. I’m not one o’ those duds that pay you a thick ’un for an hour in the dark. We’re on the square, you an’ me. How d’ye do it?”
“Do what?”
“Well, them raps, for example. I’ve seen you sit there at your desk, as it might be, and raps come answerin’ questions over yonder on the bookshelf. It’s damned clever—fair puzzles ’em every time. How d’ye get them?”
“I tell you I don’t. It’s outside myself.”